You are here

Treasures: Think I’ll Blame Barbie

Tina Dale has been the features editor for the Times Record since March 2001. She previously was a beat reporter for several years, covering Crawford County, agribusiness, health, education and Sebastian County courts. She has won awards for feature story, news and business coverage and humor column. Previously, she was an award-winning news producer for Channel 40/29 KHBS and a reporter for the Amarillo Globe News in Amarillo, Texas. Tina was named a Leading Lady by the Junior League of Fort Smith for 2007. She has a bachelor's degree in journalism and English from the Angelo State University in San Angelo, Texas, and a master's degree in professional writing from the University of Oklahoma in Norman, Okla. She originally is from Wheeler, Texas.

It all started about a month or so ago when my friend, Rachel, said I need to embrace my inner Barbie. I won’t bore you with the details of what she said or why she was saying it. It’s suffice to say it was something I needed to hear at that moment.

All my life, I’ve been compared to Barbie. When I was 7 and Mom said my hair looked just like Super Star Barbie’s, I was delighted.

When I was in high school and the mean girls taunted me and called me Barbie, I was crushed. Maybe it was the way they said it or what all they implied.

As the years passed, I got over caring.

Then one day, I walked in the office in my pink houndstooth suit, and my sister-in-law quipped that I looked just like Barbie. I scowled. A few weeks later when I wore my blue-and-pink suit to the office and she said I was First Lady Barbie, I had to laugh along with her.

Once I stopped at the store on the way to my father-in-law’s for lunch stuff. I picked up a toy car for my son and a Barbie for my daughter. My daughter showed her brother her new doll, and my adorable 2-year-old squealed, “Mommy.”

My affiliation with Barbie suddenly was a dream.

So when Rachel said I needed to embrace my inner Barbie, I knew she meant I needed to get back to a part of me I had lost for a bit.

I just wasn’t exactly sure how to do that.

This week, I went in for a manicure. I told Lynn I needed Barbie nails. She looked confused.

I said, “I’ve been told I need to embrace my inner Barbie.”

She asked what in the world that meant.

I told her I didn’t have a clue, but she could interpret it however she wanted.

I walked out with Barbie pink nails embellished with rhinestone bows on both ring fingers and a strand of rhinestones on the index fingers.

I was so proud of my nails. In fact, I was admiring them so much I apparently wasn’t paying that much attention to what I was doing.

I walked out of the salon, unlocked my Jeep, opened the driver’s door and smacked it hard against my forehead. I stood dazed looking at the door for a few seconds, wondering what in the world I had ever done to it.

I crawled in the front seat, pulled down the visor, opened the mirror and checked the damage. I had a bright red streak across my head and a nice forming bump. I tried to cover it with my bangs. It didn’t help.

My head ached all day from the bump. Even now, if I run my hand across my forehead it’s tender … and swollen.

I showed my husband at dinner that night. (I’ll admit I wanted sympathy.) I made him feel the knot. “What did you do?,” he asked.

I answered, “Do you want the truth or a cool story that explains it better.”

He said both.

So I told him what happened.

“I sure hope that’s the truth because it’s not a very cool story,” he said when I finished.

So I added, “Well, actually, I was being carjacked. Two men grabbed me and tried to get my keys. I fought them off. As I was fighting, one pushed my head into the door. I was dazed, but I was still able to get in the car and drive away.”

I asked if that was a better story. He said a little, but still not all that exciting.

I added that after I got in the car, I ran over both the carjackers. They were in critical condition, but the police decided it was just an accident and the lucky thing was that I got away the evil-doers.

My husband decided it was better story, but I could still use some help.

That’s when I decided it was all Barbie’s fault. Now, if my head would just stop throbbing, I’m certain I could just come up with a really great story as to how.